


Not Hungry

by DictionaryWrites



Series: A Comprehensive Set of Attractions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Sherlock Holmes, Casual Sex, Corporal Punishment, Cunnilingus, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Dinner, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Obedience, Orders, Public Sex, Punishment, Sexual Fantasy, Size Difference, Spanking, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock notices something's changed in his feelings where Lestrade is concerned.</p><p>Naturally, he blames Irene. (And people think he's not <i>logical</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Hungry

Sherlock frowns slightly as he watches Lestrade in the little shop; he sips at a steaming mug of coffee in regular, absent shifts of his wrist, the movement unconscious and automatic, as he works through a set of reports in front of him. It's rare that Sherlock sees him out in a café for social reasons, let alone to do paperwork, and Sherlock can only presume that his office was lacking in its usual quota of peace to work. The man's not slept, and Sherlock can easily extrapolate _why_ from the white tan line around his finger and the way he glances anxiously at his untouched phone every few moments, hoping she'll ring.

Lestrade is a decently handsome man, and although he's certainly _older_ , Sherlock, for the life of him, cannot comprehend why he continues to go back to this woman that doesn't seem very interested in the monogamy he craves, when he surely would be able to find a more appropriate partner.

The idea affects a sort of _twinge_ in Sherlock – he's missing something.

Sherlock looks back to Lestrade, and he finds his gaze flickering over Lestrade's mouth, where stubble has grown from two days without shaving and his lips are slightly parted in concentration; he looks at Lestrade's hands, then, as worn and ink-stained as ever, broad and strong.

There's something _different_ , but Sherlock can't quite put his finger on it, can't glean what it is that has caught his unconscious attention, what it is that he's missing. He knows more about Lestrade than he ever has – for example, he _definitely_ remembers that his name is **Gregory** now, after Mycroft had sarcastically put a post-it note on Sherlock's fridge and Sherlock had been made to look at it every day until he bothered to put it in the bin – but he knows there's something about him that's escaping his attention for the moment.

Sherlock's eyes flicker back up to the inspector's face, looking at his concentrated eyes, at the furrow of his brow, at the thick, grey hairs that sprout from Lestrade's cheeks and chin. Sherlock looks at those hairs, estimating their length, wondering how much coarser the older man's greying stubble is than Sherlock's own when he lacks the chance to shave, considering how the scratch of the stuff over Sherlock's pale neck would feel as Lestrade bites at his--

Sherlock pauses, blinking a few times as he shocks himself out of the reverie. Putting one hand over his right cheek, he feels the skin as it becomes heated, a scarlet flush beginning to show itself over the usual white marble.

Lestrade looks up from his work – Sherlock's sudden movement had evidently caught his peripheral attention – and catches Sherlock's eye where he stands across the road, and Sherlock waves, the movement brisk and awkward as he turns up his collar as if to fight off the cold (though _actually_ to the hide the fact that his cheeks are beginning to turn pink), before going on his way.

He's never considered Lestrade in a _sexual_ situation before. In fact, the only person he's _ever_ considered in a sexual situation that actually excited him has been--

**Her.**

“What have you done?” Sherlock bites out the question with accusation as he shuts the door to 221B behind him, and on the other end of the phone line there's a moment of silence before she speaks.

“Why, _lots_ of things, my darling. Have I been a naughty girl?”

“I'm not flirting,” Sherlock says firmly as he shrugs off his coat and throws it over the back of the sofa.

“You never are.”

“I _felt_ something.”

“Well done. We'll have a party.” Irene purrs, and Sherlock tries not to let it affect him, but their dynamic is an electric one, a dynamic he loves nothing more than to lose himself in.

“You're the only woman – the only person, actually - I've ever been attracted to-”

“You _do_ know how to flatter a girl-” comes the expected interruption, but Sherlock just talks over her to finish his sentence.

“-and today I felt attracted to **Lestrade**.” A _scoff_.

“Well, he could do with a shave, but I suppose he's passably acceptable.”

“I've never been attracted to a man before. I've never been attracted to _him_ before-” And Sherlock can't think what else to attribute it to, what else to attribute it to _except_ for Irene.

“And you're blaming me?”

“Well-”

“Sherlock,” Irene takes on a slightly more serious tone, but the flirtatious edge is always there, _always,_ “I've made human sexuality my business. Trust me, my darling boy, when I say it is malleable, fluid and very exciting, especially when _you_ are involved.” He listens to her exhale, and he tries to ignore the _heat_ it sends through him. Sherlock, ordinarily, has a relatively low sex drive, masturbating in a sort of perfunctory fashion a few times a week – more like _maintenance_ than everything else.

But Irene _sparks_ something in him.

Sherlock pauses, pondering the fact that he's licked his lips twice in the past two minutes and only just realized it, and then says, “Let's have dinner.” She likes it when he uses the words from her mouth, and she loves it when he uses innuendo.

“I'm not _hungry_ ,” she murmurs, mouth suddenly a lot closer to the phone and quite deliberately laden with promise.

“Nor am I.”

“ _Good_.

\---

“Mmm, I don't understand _why_ everyone thinks you're a virgin,” Irene murmurs, drawing her fingers through Sherlock's hair as he drags her lips over his ear, her breath hot. He lies on his back, sheets tangled around his ankles and hers, and he replies with a quiet hum of sound, leaning into the touch.

“Well, I doubt my brother saying so helps,” Sherlock replies. “Or _you_ saying so, for that matter.” Irene laughs, and draws her hand down his chest. He is not touched _often_ , not really, and he relaxes under her fingertips, eyes fluttering closed. Before Irene, he'd never really felt particular _pull_ to anyone, least of all women: he'd experimented with a half dozen partners of various genders and body types at university, but the sex had felt unnecessarily messy and overtly social – ultimately no more satisfying than masturbation.

But with Irene, he wants to touch, to bite, lick, grasp, _fuck_ \--

Irene _attracts_ him.

“Perhaps you're demisexual,” Irene says lightly as her fingers trace feather-heavy circles over the bare skin of Sherlock's belly, the sensation just the pleasant side of ticklish, as if the conversation they'd had a few hours ago had been a few minutes ago instead.

“What's that?” Sherlock asks lazily, drawing one hand over her arm and letting his thumb stroke over the skin of her inner elbow. She doesn't sweat as much as Sherlock does – neither of them, actually, seem to be especially _sweaty_ people – but he still feels the wetness under the pad.

“You're only attracted to people with whom you've already formed an emotional bond.”

“Stupid word.”

“Most are.”

“Stupid _concept_. I don't want to shag **Mycroft**. Or _John_.” Both are said with an equal disgust, though Sherlock knows full well how John's gaze lingers on Sherlock's body if he's not dressed (or if he is), and Irene laughs at him: for some reason, he always takes a masochistic pleasure in her laughing at him. It perhaps helps that as she does so, she begins to massage his thigh.

“It doesn't mean you want _everyone_ you've an emotional bond with. Just the pretty ones.”

“Do you think Lestrade's pretty?”

“I think he could hold you against a wall and make you _cry_ for him,” Irene whispers, and it _shocks_ him, suddenly; he shifts on the bed, eyes wide, and when he glances at her she's showing all of her teeth in a _fierce_ grin. The pink begins to come to Sherlock's cheeks again, burning under the skin, and she lets out a quiet little _ooh_ , pleased.

“I don't want him to do that,” Sherlock says firmly, but despite the tone he doesn't sound especially certain about it, and Irene hums, dragging her teeth over her jaw in a way that makes him _sigh_.

“Get on your belly,” Irene _orders_ him, and it sends a thrill through him like it always does – he opens his mouth to complain, but her hand claps over his mouth with a _smack_ of sound, and she murmurs, “Ah ah ah. Do what I say. Just for now, Sherlock, no misbehaviour.” He'd usually argue, usually complain and faux-struggle just for her to smack him across the face, but she speaks with an _unusual_ promise in her tone, just enough to intrigue him--

If the highest compliment can ever be bestowed upon Irene Adler, it is that she never, _ever_ bores Sherlock Holmes.

He moves with grace (he is graceful, apparently; Mycroft had once described Sherlock's exit from a swimming pool as “simultaneously lacking in and full of bony edges”) to slide onto his stomach, and at the next instruction, he _does_ close his eyes. Even without his sight, Sherlock realizes more than most people, hears the faintest rustle of fabric or shift of hair, feels her body move behind him, and he expects her to touch him, but no such touch comes: instead, her hands settle either side of his head, and she leans down, mouth to the shell of his ear.

She likes to whisper in his ear: he likes to listen.

“Think about it, Sherlock. Ignore me, for now, and just listen to my voice: think of the good _inspector_ when you're being particularly _bratty_ at a crime scene. Think of him grabbing you by the hair and dragging you down to his level, pulling you outside and throwing you over the back of one of those charming little police cars,” Sherlock's breathing has sped, just slightly – Lestrade's never so much as touched his hair, and suddenly Sherlock can't help but shift restlessly on the bed as he thinks of the older man's fingers in the thick curls; Sherlock has sensitive follicles, and if Irene wants his attention she only needs to _grasp_ him properly. “And pulling down those trousers of yours.”

“Irene-” Sherlock says just for the sake of saying something, and he's not hard, not properly – he's into his thirties, and expecting an erection so soon after coming _once_ is more than unrealistic – but he feels sensitive all over, shivers every time her hair brushes over the back of his neck, over his shoulders.

“Oh, shush now, Sherlock,” Irene tuts at him, tone _scolding_ , and then she continues on, “He'd have to throw that coat up, of course, fold it over your back, but that wouldn't matter, would it? Sherlock Holmes bare-arsed for all the world to see, why, the coat would be the _least_ of your problems.” Sherlock doesn't fantasize, not to masturbate, not during sex, and Irene's never done this before, never whispered filth about another _person_ into his ear while he tries to stay (mostly) still under her body. “And what would you say, Sherlock? What would you say to him to make him stop?”

“I'd tell him I was sorry.”

“ _Would_ you?”

“Yeah-” Sherlock nods, eyes closing tighter as he feels her hand _hover_ over his back, not yet touching but close enough to begin a little massage once more.

“Would you mean it?” Sherlock lets out a laugh that's more a pant than anything else, and shakes his head. “ _Naughty_.” And then she brings her hand down _hard_ on the flesh of his arse, so much so that he draws in a sudden breath, pushing his face to the pillows and letting out a stifled cry. The pain sings through him, sharp and heated and tingling on the skin she'd slapped. “What would he call you, Sherlock? Slut? Whore? _Boy_? **Brat**?” The first two words have little effect on him – sexual shaming has little effect on a man who's only been enjoying sex for two years – but the third makes him shiver, and the fourth makes him _whine_.

He's been called a _brat_ all his life, but there's something different about the word when Sherlock's cock is half-hard and Irene's whispering the word in his ear, something that electrifies his skin and makes his insides twist emphatically.

“That's what he'd call you, isn't it? He'd call you a spoilt, smart-mouthed little _brat_ -” Another smack lands on his arse, and then another, and his prick is rubbing against Irene's too-soft, too-wonderful sheets, “-and he'd drag you over his knee by the hair, spank these lovely white cheeks so red one might think you'd _burnt_ them, and do you know what he'd make you do then, Sherlock?”

There's a pregnant pause as the smacks abruptly stop, and Sherlock shakes his head. Irene leans in closer, leans in so very close her chin is against his neck and her breath tickles the inside of his ear, and then she murmurs, “He'd make you choke on his cock.” Sherlock gasps, draws in such a harsh breath it hurts his lungs, and he grasps at the sheets underneath him as he comes, letting out undignified little hisses and whimpers into the pillow, and she strokes his back as he grinds himself against the mattress until he goes still, breathing heavily.

“Such an active imagination,” Irene murmurs as Sherlock sits up, rubbing with surprise at one of his own eyes, and she traces over his cheek. “I do envy it.”

“Is that all you envy about me?” Sherlock asks, setting his hands either side of her thighs and putting their mouths close together, so his is only an inch from hers. He's bigger than she is, and she enjoys that, he knows – he's seen the way her pupils dilate when he towers over her, seen the way she _quakes_ with delight when she has him on his knees.

“Your cock's alright, I suppose,” she replies thoughtfully, and Sherlock arches an eyebrow.

“Wrong colour. Wouldn't match these.” This is punctuated with thumbs that flick over her nipples, and she laughs, arching her back before she falls back on the bed – the two of them are, now, to the right of the wet patch Sherlock had just rather _artfully_ created.

“I suppose that's true,” Irene allows, and she spreads her thighs so he can kneel between them. “You should go after him.”

“Should I?”

“Oh, _yes_. I'd love to see if he can make you wail like I can.”

“I don't think anyone can make me wail like you can.” Sherlock replies, the compliment smooth as a knife through butter, and she grins, grasping at his hair just to see him _stiffen_ and press into the touch. “I can't go _again_.”

“No,” Irene agrees, pushing him down her body while retaining the tight grip on his curls, “But I can.” Sherlock dips, drawing his tongue over her clit and keeping his gaze on her face, just to see her eyes close, to see her lips part, to see her push her chin up into the air as her head tips back.

The attraction to Lestrade might be _new_ , but Sherlock's attraction to _her_ is just the same as ever.

And, Sherlock can't help but think as he traces over her labia with his tongue before sucking on her clit, feeling her thighs tremble and quiver under the grip of his fingers, who is to say Lestrade won't be back with his _wife_ again by Saturday?

Irene is more complicated, less predictable, but _completely_ more rational.

Even if he _would_ like Lestrade to call him a brat once or twice.

 


End file.
